


Why Does the Wind Whisper in the Willow?

by IOnlyWriteKinkandFeels



Category: Criminal Minds
Genre: ASL, Autism, Autistic Reid, Autistic!Spencer Reid, Gen, Hotch is a good bro, Lots of definitions, Lots of itallics, Nonverbal Reid, Reid has autism. If 4 tags wasnt enough, Sensitivity to everything, Sensory Overload, Signing, Stimming, autistic!spencer, self indulgent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-01-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 17:27:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9395690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IOnlyWriteKinkandFeels/pseuds/IOnlyWriteKinkandFeels
Summary: He'd come up with the silly phrase when he was young. It was familiar and Good and Safe.Spencer needs to stim, so he locks himself in the bathroom.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I read the entire autism tag for Spencer and think there should be more of it. And that even though I don't have a diagnosis this was definitely a safe way to vent some of the things that I experience personally. Also, I wanted to see more unusual stims, or ones that had been translated into something else, so I had to write them myself.
> 
> The choppy writing is meant to be like his/my thinking. So, I hope it makes sense.

Was the case difficult, or was the BAU simply over worked with insufficient rest to tide them over? Spencer found himself thinking in circles as he stared at the information that surrounded him. Maps, diagrams, statistics, evidence, photos. It was a maelstrom of information that beckoned to him, frantic to be solved in a sea of _solve me, solve me, save her, solve me!_

He shuddered and squeezed his eyes shut much too tightly. He opened them again to the tsunami of information.

  
Spencer pursed his lips to keep in a hiss. It was bright all around, as if suddenly the lights had decided to impersonate the sun. Of course it isn't possible. Lights are not capable of emulating the brightness of the sun, for obvious reasons. Such as it being impossible to create something that hot, or bright.

But because he was his mother's son, he entertained the idea of the literary interpretation of this. Assuming lights had the awareness to see the sun and the way it cast it's blinding light over the windows of the small station, chances are they'd break before they reached a satisfactory brightness, no matter how far from the warmth or luminace.

The image of light bulbs shattering made him shudder again, but the sound of a chair scraping in the distance made him want to crawl out of his own skin. It was like the gateway to hell had been opened.

The noise of the police department all abuzz with staplers, carelessly tossed objects, a myriad of voices all overlapping with thunderous booms of baritone and squawks and chirps of alto, slamming doors, the hum of the too bright lights and colors amplified. The doctor clenched and unclenched his fists, a punishing grip on the marker he'd been holding.

He could get through this.

Even with just two hours of sleep. Even with just a bunch of tampered evidence. Even with all of this bedlam and a life at stake.

_'Bedlam. Noun. A scene or state of wild uproar and confusion. Also, Archaic. An insane asylum or madhouse.'_

Spencer screwed his eyes shut again, this time until he could see patterns.

_'Phosphene. Noun. A ring or spot of light produced by pressure on the eyeball or direct stimulation of the visual system other than by light.'_

He continued to try and focus, thoughts a jumble, constantly starting over due to distraction. Spencer felt his throat closing up, squashing down the urge to let out a soft keen and cover his ears. He wished he'd bought those noise cancelling headphones. Or maybe even a cheap pair of sunglasses.

He'd never been good at doing things with the intent of the future. It was constantly present in his life. _I don't need food now, so I won't pack any for later._ Preposterous. _I'm hungry now, but coffee is easier._ Fool hardy. _The headphones or ear plugs wouldn't be put to use enough for me to actually invest in them._  Just plain ridiculous.

He wished he'd bought them a thousand times over now. The feeling inside him was-

A hand is on his shoulder and he gasps, just barely holding in a scream but unable to keep the horridly garish flinch to himself. It's Hotch he turns to, and that throws him off before he remembers Morgan isn't present. Spencer squints up at him, trying to school himself into normalcy.

"Do whatever you need to do to get back on track." Hotch says, commanding yet gentle.

Spencer doesn't bother to open his mouth. He knows he can't speak. Even assuming that he could, the words he uses wouldn't be his own. He nods, hesitant and almost ashamed as he quickly stalks off to the bathroom.

_'Echolalia. Noun. Meaningless repetition of another person's spoken words as a symptom of psychiatric disorder. Also, repetition of speech by a child learning to talk.'_

He locks himself in, hoping no one will need to go for the next ten minutes or so. If he's lucky.

Though, he doubts the concept of luck is actually worth the merit other people give it. It's more of chance, statistics, and probability. Maybe even random selection.

Spencer finds himself pacing and signing as he thinks.

_'Learning a second language deters the onslaught of dementia.'_ He found himself signing.

Since he has an eidetic memory, why not put it to use?

_'Eidetic. Adjective. Relating to or denoting mental images having unusual vividness and detail, as if actually visible. Or noun. A person able to form or recall eidetic images.'_ His hands flap about, translating the textbook definition to ASL.

_'ASL. Noun. American Sign Language.'_

Spoken languages were always difficult, His syllables clunky and misshapen.

Learning ASL was not easy either. There's so much to be said with the body as a whole, and not just whatever signs you may need at the moment. Spencer was never the person to understand people. Their social cues. Their unspoken rules and why they just were.

Maybe he joined the BAU to feel competent at studying behavior. He doesn't know entirely.

At first, he'd abhorred being constantly left out of the loop.

'Abhor. Noun. To regard with disgust and hatred.' He translated for himself.

He was a genius amongst the layman. They beat him to make sure he didn't forget his place. He didn't need to be taught humility.

If only he could've beaten acceptance and self confidence into them.

'self-confidence. Noun. A feeling of trust in one's abilities, qualities, and judgment.'

The children and teens who went to school with him stared as he stimmed. Told him he looked stupid. Of course that's impossible, given mental processes and lack of cognitive functions are invisible. Explaining this to them only emboldened his aggressors.

He learned to stilt and get rid of his stims. To pack them away until he was alone. To learn acceptable guestures to explain things, and later ASL to disguise his hand flaps and only shake his head once, other wise he'd get caught in the motion. How to pressure stim in public by sitting on one or both legs. How to not info dump in class, or ever if he wasn't with his mother. Gauging when he could or couldn't define words aloud or say words that felt nice in his mouth incessantly. And when he could and couldn't toe walk or bounce on them. No more raptor hands and chirps of agreement.

He'd stopped paying attention to himself, the bouncing and signs less frantic, but sticking to a particular theme now.

'Why does the wind whisper in the willow?' He signed over and over.

He came up with the silly phrase when he was young. The feeling of the words on his lips were so nice. The sound of the letter Y was good, right.

Soon his hands were going through every sign he could think of in his frazzled state with hands that used the base motion of a Y. He didn't try to string them into sentences.

_'Play. Drunk. Mistake. Now. Stay. Today. Tonight.'_

"Why does the wind whisper in the willow?" He heard himself rasp.

He furrowed his brows, willing himself to push past the barrier of his tongue for new words. Moments of struggling and frustrated stimming aside, he spoke as sure as death and taxes.

"Because I say it does."

Spencer squared his shoulders, unlocked the door and stalked out, stares be damned. He was an FBI agent, and he had a job to do.

 

**Author's Note:**

> If I've offended anyone or done something wrong, please let me know and I'll try my best to fix it. If you enjoyed, please comment.
> 
>  
> 
> Also, please support a broke college student. If you're feeling generous, or financially inclined, maybe buy me a coffee? 
> 
> http://ko-fi.com/lencrestmere
> 
>  
> 
> Lastly? Thanks! It warms me to see that this is my most popular fic and how many people agree about our favorite doctor.


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